The Second One (Rewrite)
by Sybl Angelkat
Summary: One surviving Wesker was trouble enough for the world, but what if there were *two* of them? In addition to trying to carry his plans out, dealing with pesky S.T.A.R.S. survivors, and trying to run a business, Albert Wesker discovers another challenge along the way: a competitor. Has he met his match in more ways than one?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Sorry I took this down and replaced it for the THIRD time, but I'm trying to get this right. One of my most loyal reviewers happens to be much more familiar with the Resident Evil series and he's helping me fix all my (glaring) mistakes. I appreciate all the support and the patience. If any of the rest of you see things that need fixing, please tell me. This chapter is dedicated to GronHatchat

_March 2009_

It seemed fitting that he would die in fire. Albert Wesker, a self-proclaimed phoenix and would-be god had been forged in fire and to fire he would return. As the rockets struck him and threw him backwards, a bright hot crimson-gold fountain shot up and sprayed the hazy red-gray skies above him. The sun had risen just enough that the black smudge of a retreating helicopter was visible for a short distance. He was slammed into the volcano's rocky shores, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. Between the massive blood loss from the battle, Uroboros, and the lava having eaten away most of his lower half, even Progenitor couldn't repair him fast enough. He was now unable to draw enough breath in his heat-seared lungs to even breathe well let alone scream. The pain was indescribable and overpowered any rational thoughts he might have had left. Gagging and choking from his windpipe swelling shut, he could only stare upward at the rising black threads of smoke that came from his own damaged flesh. The Hellish crimson glow of his eyes dimmed and went out. The pupils had dilated so much now that there was only a thin ring of ember-colored iris around the glassed-over black. He went completely still and the blackness mercifully seized him. Unfortunately, from his perception, the reprieve lasted only seconds. He was aware of something being forced into his throat and a crushing, brutal force on his already damaged ribs. Standing over him was a dark smudgy shadow with eyes like fire. He couldn't fend it off, couldn't so much as twitch a finger or make a sound. He was forced to endure agony whenever this thing approached him. His higher-functioning consciousness had been knocked out and there was nothing but a primitive and deep-rooted fear that Hell might actually exist after all. His one last hope was that the blackness would come quickly between the demonic creature's touches.

Sometime much later, though he didn't know exactly how long, he began to notice things. The paralysis _must_ have worn off because he had been bound by restraints. He could smell the other creature despite something blocking his face and forcing his hot, moist breath to keep circulating around his parted lips. Something in him inherently sensed danger. His vision was obstructed by something that turned his world a grayish hue. He felt something subtle, a change in the air current. Seizing his chance, he broke through his bonds and struck the creature that had been tormenting him. There was a satisfying WHACK as his fist collided with it. Peeling off the gauze that had blinded him, he immediately wished he hadn't. Bright fluorescent lights flooded his vision and gave him an instant headache. The rest of his body also began to sting and scream its assortment of complaints and he immediately crumpled, falling off the bed. There was a weak cough on the other side of the room and a rustle of fabric. The overhead lights went out as he tried to get up and failed.

"Albert…"

He looked up, his eyes blazing red once more. It took a few seconds for his vision to adjust and clear up enough to even make out what he was looking at. He could see dark hair and very pale skin. Powder blue medical scrubs hid all of it but the face—even the hands were still gloved. And her eyes were glowing red, too, but out of concern.

_Anassa…_

She looked like she hadn't slept or eaten in days. Her hair was disheveled and had lost its shine. There were dark shadows under her eyes and her cheeks had a sunken-in appearance. Even in the soft glow of computer equipment and vital-signs monitors, she had an unflattering sickly grayish cast to her skin. Very, very gently, she picked him up. Despite the layers of gauze and bandages, he could feel the tremors in her arms.

"It's all right," she whispered, "you're safe."

"You disobeyed me," he rasped, "_again._"

"Where would you be if I hadn't?" her voice cracked slightly. He instinctually clutched at his throat. It was still quite raw and it hurt like Hell to talk. While she was trying to get him situated again, he felt all the tubes pinching and sliding around. There were IV lines going into both arms, a feeding tube, a catheter, and probably more that he wasn't yet aware of. Most of his skin was covered up by gauze, but what little was showing was an angry, raw, blistery red. It was bad—very bad—but he was alive against all odds. He was going to say something else, but coughed nastily and was unable to. His heart monitor beat out a frantic staccato behind them. She stroked what little was left of his straw-colored hair and embraced him very carefully. He let his head sag against her chest. Her own heartbeat was fast and irregular, a testament to how worried she'd been.

"You can try again some other time," she told him, "but you've been so fixated on this grand future you're trying to create that you've completely forgotten about the one you've _already_ created."

Her voice was thick with emotion. Tears began to form in her eyes and the blazing scarlet made them shine like rubies in the sun. Those tears were a testament to how scared she'd been of losing him. In the years he'd known Anassa Wesker, he had only _ever_ seen her cry three times and he remembered each one very vividly. She blinked and the rubies turned to diamonds toppling down her cheeks. He knew her well enough to know that she was near her breaking point. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know what to say. He could barely even squeeze her hand without a ripple of pain shooting up his arm, but the beginnings of a smile ghosted her lips. The anesthetic was rapidly pulling him under again. Now that he knew where he was, he embraced the darkness where he would be healed without pain. It was then that Ana finally allowed the dam to fall. The tears that she'd tamped down inside began to flow steadily as she struggled not to grip him more tightly. Her head was pounding and she knew their son would be waiting on the stairs. These last several days had been terribly hard on him as well—as hard as she'd tried to shield him from the brutal realities of what they did for a living and the costs, he had lost a bit of his innocence the day she'd brought Wesker home. He had seen his father's broken, battered body. Since then, it was hard to get him to do anything else but keep vigil on the stairs. She gently eased her husband back down on the pillows and went to check on Isaiah. He was there, of course, his scarlet-gold eyes gazing hopefully up at her. His downy angel-blonde hair would probably turn into the ashen blonde of his father's when he grew older. Other than the childlike roundness of his cheeks and the upturn of his nose (which was hers), he would probably grow up to be a carbon copy of Albert. His little hands reached for her anxiously and she swung him onto her hip.

"He's awake," Isaiah guessed, "or you wouldn't be up here. Can I see him now?"

"Just a little bit longer, Sweetie. He's in a lot of pain right now and he can't stay awake very well."

"Ready for your coffee now, Ana?"

Marie stood at the counter and was putting plates on the table.

"I'll do it, Marie. I need…something to do."

"All right."

Marie patted Isaiah fondly on the head and watched as Ana got out both breakfast ingredients as well as her beloved coffee. She chopped up tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, bell peppers, and ham and sausage. Isaiah loved omelets and she had been feeding him an awful lot of TV dinners, sandwiches, and cereal lately. It was time he had something nutritious. Marie looked as exhausted as she felt—the woman was getting on in years and she had had to deal with the stressors of adjusting to an entirely new house after taking a transatlantic flight in the middle of the night. Her pale, opaque-lensed eyes had never known sight since she was born, but she was loyal, quiet, and a great help to the Weskers. It had taken Albert some time to accept her since his hired help often died or betrayed him, but it was one issue that Ana had stood her ground on.

"I made something for Daddy," Isaiah said, heaping picante sauce over his omelet and digging in, "want to see?"

"Perhaps after breakfast," Ana answered, "I'd be glad to."

"Do you want me to go downstairs with Albert for a bit?" Marie asked.

"Yes, please do. Take some of this with you, though."

She made an omelet for Marie who was grateful for the break, another for herself, and one for their "guardian angel" as Ana jokingly called him. Sometime back, Wesker had introduced her to H.U.N.K. He would do almost anything if the money was good enough. He was earning his fortune up on the roof shooting anyone who got too close—and with their location, one would most certainly have to be _trying_ to get there purposely. Carrying the steaming omelet and a fresh cup of coffee up the stairs to the roof, she realized how winded and weak she really was. Ordinarily, she'd be up there as fast as she thought about being up there. Pausing to catch her breath, she surveyed their surroundings. The blood red sun was just climbing up over the horizon. Part of the sky was still murky from the distant volcano, but a bit of it was a shade of turquoise she'd only dreamed of mixing with her paints. The masked man was reclining in an alcove, his signature mask over his face and his gun in his lap. She saw him twitch when he heard her, but he relaxed shortly after. His belly rumbled noisily and Ana smiled faintly.

"He's awake," H.U.N.K. guessed, taking off his mask. While he would never tell Ana what his real name was, she had at last seen his face. He had cropped red hair and olive-green eyes. A sprinkling of youth-giving freckles over his nose and cheeks balanced the careworn lines around his mouth and under his eyes.

"Finally. Thank God," Ana confirmed as he gratefully accepted the meal. The hours had been Hell, but she had tried her best to compensate with a pay raise, access to anything he wanted inside the house, and the best food and drinks. Once this disaster was over, he could stay as long as he wanted.

"Wait—how did you know that?" Ana asked.

He swallowed an enormous mouthful before answering:

"You wouldn't be up here otherwise."

She laughed tiredly.

"I'm as easy to read as a picture book, aren't I? Do you need anything else while I'm here?"

"Nope. This is easily the biggest omelet I've ever seen." He estimated that he'd be full for at least half a day.

He also eagerly accepted the coffee and took a long drink of it before starting on breakfast. Ana had heaped his plate with generous portions, so he doubted he'd need any seconds. Ana smiled and left him to eat. After she joined Isaiah downstairs for enough breakfast to feed an army and enough coffee to keep a college student awake during a cram session, she went with Isaiah to see what he'd created.

"Oh, my word…"

In the middle of his room, he had created a perfect replica of their house, the underground lab, and the surrounding landscape. There was, of course, a cutaway section so that the viewer could see inside all the rooms. Completing all of it were two tiny figures in the basement. An injured Lego Albert was laying on an operating table. His plastic Lego body was damaged with scorch-marks and bite-marks. Little strips of paper substituted for gauze and strings substituted for the tubes that were going in and out of him. Ana stared in a mixture of horror, fascination, and awe. How had he seen Albert when he hadn't actually been inside the lab during these last few weeks? A tiny Ana stood beside tiny Albert and was in the process of winding gauze around his arm.

"This…this is incredible," she said, clearly stunned, "did you do all this during these last few days?"

"Yeah…Marie got tired of dragging me off the stairs," he said, "I can tell she's not used to being around kids much. She doesn't talk much, but she's nice. She tries to play with me when I ask her."

"Before you were born, I was just like her," Ana admitted as she descended the stairs with a plate of food for Marie, "I absolutely did not know what to do with you when you were born. I had to learn everything from scratch—your father, too. Anyone who tells you that you're born with that knowledge is full of it."

Isaiah laughed.

"Don't you mean full of sh—"

A warning stare from Ana cut him off.

"Oh, right…I'm not supposed to say that no matter how many times I hear you two say it."

The amused irony in his voice made her chuckle.

"Can I please come in?" Isaiah asked, "Please? I promise I'll be quiet and not touch anything and I won't bother Daddy. I just want to see him."

Ana sighed. She was ready to just curl up somewhere and close her eyes.

"All right," she gave in, "but only for a few minutes. You need to be very, very quiet."

He nodded solemnly, his expression very, very serious. Ana's heart melted—once the childlike roundness had vanished from his cheeks and age brought out the hard, angular jawline and cheekbones, he would very much resemble his father. The only parts of herself that she saw in him were the texture of his hair (it was already turning wavy though it had been straight when he was born) and perhaps the shape of eyes and nose. She led him down into what they jokingly referred to as the "dungeon" in better times. Isaiah secretly hated this place and was awed by it at the same time—it was too white, too brightly lit, and too scary. He had nightmares about the things that floated in the tanks and he hated how much his parents had to be down here. Despite being very intelligent for his age, his emotions, of course, were still catching up. He always felt as if this place stole his parents away from him too much. He didn't voice what he was feeling, though—he grudgingly had to admit that it had at least saved his father's life.

When they came up to the bed, Marie turned her head towards them.

"This is amazing. When did you learn to cook, dear?"

"Let me rephrase that," she said feeling slightly guilty, "I didn't know you could cook anything besides pastries. I had my reservations at first…"

Ana chuckled.

"Necessity makes a student out of anybody," she sighed, "Albert got sick of my sweets. He insisted on 'real food', whatever that means."

Deepening her voice and doing her best Wesker impression, she posed like him and said "Anassa, no one should live on nothing but sugar and coffee-not even you. You won't die if you eat a real meal."

Marie tried not to choke on her food from laughter. Isaiah giggled, putting both hands over his mouth in an effort not to laugh loudly. He was taking his mother very seriously about her earlier request for quiet—but it was harder than it looked. Very, very carefully, he climbed up on the foot of the bed to get a better look.

His father's chest rose and fell steadily with each breath. A vast majority of his body was bandaged up and he smelt heavily of chemicals and disinfectant. One arm was in a cast and the other was wrapped in gauze. Probably the worst part was his face, neck, and shoulders: what little of them wasn't bandaged had blistered, angry red skin. Ana had been forced to shave off most of his hair in order to restore his scalp. He felt his lip quivering and bit it hard—no matter what happened, he mustn't cry in case his father woke up. He would be upset and probably in a really bad mood as it was and Isaiah was afraid that his tears would upset him more. Ana had fallen silent, noticing his silent distress.

"I know it looks bad," she told him, "but he won't look like this forever. He'll heal and his skin will turn pink and smooth like yours—he might have a few scars, but that's all."

"No, it won't," Isaiah said quietly.

She looked at him questioningly and he gestured for her to lean in. Cupping his hand to her ear as though telling a secret, he whispered something that made her heart drop into her stomach.

"He'll be crazy," Isaiah sighed, "like the others, won't he? I've seen what happens to them…they fall apart and go mad…"

He felt his eyes watering despite his internal promise not to cry.

"…and that's worse than dying…"

He had begun to tremble. Ana tried to comfort him, but it was clear that he wouldn't feel better about it until he had seen it for himself.

"Oh, Sweetie…is that what you've been worried about all this time?"

He nodded. She picked him up and hugged him, unsure of what to do or say to make him feel better. The scary part was that it was a distinct possibility.

"I got the vaccine to him," Ana told him, "and I think we did it in time thanks to you. I'm fairly sure that he's going to be all right both ways."

Isaiah gazed over her shoulder at Albert who was oblivious to all this going on. Ana was glad that he couldn't see just yet—his son's wide eyes were glowing crimson with fear and grief and tears were steadily pouring down his face.

"In the meantime," Ana whispered, "we're going to take a picture of that wonderful little house you've built and bring it down here so he can see it when he wakes up and we're going to think about all the good stuff that's happened—and going to happen. We'll get through this—we always do."

"How?"

"We just are," Ana said, her voice thickening, "now let's wash your face. You can go upstairs with Marie and show her how to play your game, all right?"

Marie didn't object. She knew that everything was hinging on Ana's ability to hold things together. She also knew that Ana's dam was about to burst again and she didn't want her son to see. Calm only on the surface, she watched as Ana washed the little boy's face and gave him a hug and a kiss.

"Can I come down again later?" he asked.

"Of course. As long as you keep being as good as you have been—I know it's hard."

"Yeah, it is," he admitted. He had been the worst combination of anxious and bored and there were things that had tempted him. They were all little kid things like climbing on the counter to get the cookies from the top of the refrigerator and hiding the jar in his toy box. They were things like sneaking outside after dark just to see what was different after his bedtime. They were like hiding from Marie just to see how long it would take for her to find him because he could stay absolutely still and not give himself away if he didn't want to. He wanted things to go back the way they were.

Once they were alone at last, Ana settled on the foot of Albert's bed. She was a fairly light sleeper under normal conditions and couldn't sleep sitting up no matter how tired she was. If she felt in danger of rolling over on him, she would simply move to the floor.

You can do it, can't you? You can pull through this just like you've pulled through everything else? We need you, Albert. I need you…

During these last few weeks, she'd missed his quiet strength and his powerful presence. She'd missed how he'd looked at every obstacle like it was a mere annoyance rather than something that could actually stop him. No matter what happened, he'd always taken charge and righted things. Now she felt more alone than ever—the last four years had changed the way she thought. Letting her eyes slide closed at long last, his face was the last thing she saw before she slept. In her dreams, she traveled back in time before this awful Uroboros disaster had ever taken place.


	2. Chapter 2

Even for a man like him, the late nights were taking their toll. Albert Wesker slumped against the table in an all-too-human show of weakness. Generally, the closer he got to a breakthrough, the later he ended up staying up. The cup of coffee that remained an almost permanent fixture at his elbow had grown cold in the last half hour as he'd feverishly typed in notes. Tomorrow was already here and daylight would come much too early. Only his intense training under Spencer's watchful eye (though he didn't know much about the man) had blessed him with enough discipline to push through his exhaustion. Deciding he'd had enough for the night, he closed his laptop and began to file away his notes and folders. Behind his dark glasses, there were bruise-like shadows developing under his icy blue eyes. He stood up to stretch and his back popped audibly. It may as well have been a gunshot for as loud as it sounded in the sudden silence.

"I don't know how you do this every single night," Birkin confessed. William Birkin was probably the closest thing to a friend that Wesker had. He was a quiet, mousy little blonde man who was cursed with a "baby-face"—the kind that made him look much younger than he really was. When they had met as teenagers, Wesker had always been the one to take charge of things and was the more assertive one. Birkin seemed to have no trouble with this arrangement—he was Chucky to Wesker's Tommy (and sometimes Angelica). They could spend hours in each others' company without saying a single word, something that came rarely to them with other people. Upon getting married and having his first child, however, William Birkin's company and patience was rather limited as of late. Both he and Annette had been logging a lot of hours in here and had yet to find someone else who could take care of Sherry on a full-time basis. Wesker only half-listened while Birkin bemoaned the difficulty of finding a trustworthy housekeeper who would be willing to keep tabs on Sherry.

"Not too many people are up for the task of raising someone else's kid. She has a knack for getting herself into trouble some days."

"Then sedate her while you're gone and she won't get into trouble," Wesker suggested, only half-joking.

"I'm afraid it's not that easy, Al. One of these days you might have kids and then you'll understand."

"I would rather be gutted by a Tyrant."

Birkin's pale blue-grey eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Of course—what was I _thinking?_ _ONE_ Albert Wesker is more than the world can handle as it is! I can only just imagine what two or three of you running around would be like!"

They stepped into the elevator together, Wesker only tolerating Birkin's ribbing because they'd known each other for so long. Anyone else would have gotten a very black glare or an elbow in the gut.

"I haven't got time for such trivial things," Wesker finally said after Birkin shut up, "between the hours I put in here and dealing with the S.T.A.R.S. team during the day, I have had my fill of social interactions."

"How's your little band of misfits going anyway? Jill and Barry and…" he paused and did his best imitation of the man beside him, "_Chhhrisssss_?"

"Well enough," Wesker muttered, unlocking his utilitarian black car, "when he isn't making an ass of himself. We're supposed to be getting another member soon."

"Oh, geez, I hope the poor sap knows what he's in for."

"We lose more recruits that way," Wesker said, amused.

"Well, good night, _Captain._"

The two men parted ways, getting into their cars. It was said that you could tell a lot about a man from his car. Birkin's was a small white one. The exterior was reasonably clean from recent rains, but there was a messy array of dolls and crayons and drawings in the backseat along with one or two empty juice-boxes. An indented place on the left side behind the driver's seat stood as a permanent monument to the pink and purple car seat that had once been wedged in there. By contrast, Wesker had a silver "everyone around here owns one" car—shockingly one of the few things he owned that wasn't black—and the interior was spotless. There were only one or two signs inside that anyone owned it—occasionally a coffee cup spent the night in the cup holder and there was change littering the small tray next to the cup holders. Wesker drove back to his small house in the middle of the street and parked his car in the concrete driveway. He could have afforded a bigger place if he really wanted, but this place was conveniently close to both the S.T.A.R.S. headquarters and the Umbrella base. Besides, he was often only there to sleep and take his meals when he wasn't grabbing whatever was there in town. In true Wesker fashion, when he prepared for his shower, the sunglasses were the last thing to go. Forgetting about dinner entirely, he went straight to bed after toweling off thoroughly. It seemed as if he had just gotten to sleep when something jerked him awake again. Squinting at the digital readout on the clock, he could just make out the numbers 3:47. Seizing the receiver with a few choice phrases mixed with incoherent mumbling, he prepared to give the person on the other end an earful for waking him up at such an ungodly hour.

"I'm sorry to bother you, I really am," a familiar but seldom-heard voice at the other end said, "this is Anita Shelton from the Alaskan base—but we've had a situation here. We're letting everyone know at the other labs just in case. There has been an experiment escape. I was the only one who made it out. We don't know how fast she can travel, but perhaps between all of us we can catch her."

He bit off the urge to ask how they had been so careless as to let something out. His training taking effect, he asked how many casualties there had been, what the nature of the experiment was, and whether or not the T-virus was involved.

"I don't know how it happened," Anita sobbed, "I was on vacation. When I finally got back tonight, the place was…in ruins…everyone I know is dead…and _she…I know she's behind this!"_

"Does _she_ have a name?" Wesker asked.

"I don't know…"

The connection died and he was unable to trace the call. All too familiar with the mutations that the T-virus could produce, he imagined some twisted, deformed creature raging through a crowd of people, then bounding off into snow-covered woods while the security system attempted to contain what it perceived as a massively uncontrolled infection. It sounded as if the system had tried to lock down the base and saw fit only to eradicate it. Or perhaps someone had panicked and activated the self-destruct in their hysteria. No one would know for sure until it was investigated. Either way, he knew that getting to the bottom of this was not going to be easy. They desperately needed to capture this thing and put it out of its misery. With any luck, the creature would die. Most of the people who were given the Progenitor did not survive very long—perhaps the monster would keel over within a matter of hours.

_But I will never assume it is truly dead until I see the body myself._

(Two Hours Earlier)

The first thing she felt upon waking was the most unimaginable pain possible. Blood gushed and spurted from her lips in a morbid crimson fountain, spraying her face with dark flecks. Her head was twisted at a terrible angle and she felt a clear dent in her skull putting pressure on her brain. The bullets that had been lodged in there had fallen out upon impact. Her inky black curls were matted with blood and other morbid goo. When she began to cry, they slid down her now mostly red-smeared cheeks and left tracks of marble-white. It was dreadfully cold and the shivering only exacerbated the pain.

_Where are they?_ She wondered, heartbroken. She had expected things to turn out differently. They had promised her that it would be painless, that they would make her into a goddess. The white slip of a gown she wore would be replaced with gold silk and her hair, neck, and wrists adorned with gems. They were supposed to be having a party upon her awakening and celebrating the birth of a new era. Instead, she was alone in the cold darkness. Her shallow breath exhaled small plumes of white clouds as she struggled to move. Wrenching her head back around with her own two hands, she wasn't really thinking about anything more than stopping the pain.

_CRACK!_

One by one, she pushed her own broken limbs back to where they belonged. Still half-laying, half-sitting in the pool of blood, she coughed it out of her lungs. At some point, she'd vomited because of the pressure on her stomach. As she seized a handful of snow to scrub out the bitter taste, she was unaware yet of the crimson blaze that had replaced her formerly olive-green eyes. The Progenitor was already working its voodoo-like magic on her, sealing the broken ends of the bones together and repairing the damaged organs. Even as she shakily stood, the frostbite damage on her limbs was already fixed and the worst of her injuries had improved to what would have taken an ordinary person several weeks to get to. As her foggy vision, both dimmed by tears and by her brain being repaired, cleared, she realized that she could see _everything._ Every snowflake had clarity—she could even catch a glimpse of the crystal patterns in them. Every rock's individual crack, shadow, and highlight were known to her. She could see almost as well in the dark as she could in the light.

_So…I have ascended after all…_

The cold seemed to be affecting her less by the second and a majority of the bleeding had staunched. She looked up at the furrowed snow clouds overhead, then at the vast cliff that they'd thrown her off of. Once the ocean tide came in, it would have sucked her body under the ice and no one would have been the wiser of the murders that had taken place. Anassa Wesker would have been just another entry in a long list of _deceased._ Her mental faculties regaining their full power brought on a thought that simultaneously shocked and infuriated her:

_They planned this all along._

They hadn't meant for her to survive. They hadn't meant for her to become a goddess. All that was for show and to make her cooperate. They'd gotten her nice and drunk on that expensive wine—the first drink she'd ever had on her life—then they'd shot her in the head. When she'd failed to reanimate in time, they'd simply tossed her off the cliff to let nature perform her burial. The snow was to have been her death shroud and the ice her eternal coffin. Ana's eyes blazed even brighter. Hands shaking and tangling in the already torn white satin skirt, she limped forward.

_I'll just have to pay them back, won't I?_

PFFFFFT!

Startled, she looked down when a plume of steam rose. Holding her hands up, she realized that they were bleeding anew from having gripped her skirt so tightly. The blood was _glowing,_ however.

_What the f-?_

The obscenity in her head went unfinished as she watched the droplets ignite. Laughing hysterically, half from madness, half from pain, and all from amusement, she watched the tiny flaming droplets spatter the snow. Flinging her arm in an arc, she winced at the pain that flared up, but watched as the brilliant orange of fire briefly ignited the dark until the snow extinguished it. She thought again of the injustice and the lies and more of it oozed out. Something else also happened, however—blue sparks of lightning danced on her fingertips. She had to stop, for she was becoming dizzy, but as the hot stench of seared air hit her nostrils, she couldn't help but imagine what _fun_ she was going to have with that A-hole Jon Dawes. From the time she was a little girl, that man had plagued her life. Digging her fingers into the rocks as if they were just chunks of clay rather than frozen solid boulders, she began to climb. It was slow going at first, but her instincts told her where to grab. She only slipped a couple of times, but her scrabbling fingers and toes recovered quickly. As she grew stronger and the virus hit its full potency within her, her pace began to quicken. Before this little "accident", she had been in excellent shape. Her hard, wiry teenage body now worked to her advantage. By the time she got to the top of the cliff once more, she was actually smiling and singing to herself. Her bare feet scarcely made any sound in the snow. She easily slipped past the guards in the towers (partially because they were always distracted by something else or drunk) and made her way inside via an improperly sealed air duct. After she grew tired of crawling, she poked her head out to see how far in she'd gotten.

"What do you mean there's a security breach! Get your asses out there and find out what's going on!"

_On a midnight stroll, Jon?_

She noticed that he held a blonde woman against his side. She'd never seen his "companions", but she had always smelt their eye-watering perfume when he'd come in to check on her "progress". She waited until the guards had dispersed before revealing herself.

Jon noticed that the air seemed to dilate. Something blurred in front of him so fast that he didn't register being slammed into the wall until the pain exploded in his head and back. The blonde woman gasped and dropped her cheap knock-off purse to the tiled floor.

"What in the—"

He froze, seeing the hellish crimson glowing eyes. The pupils had narrowed to slits—clearly not a good sign at all. Her breath was still wet and ragged from the remnants of clotting blood in her windpipe and its bitterness filled his nose.

"Good evening, _Jon,_" Ana whispered menacingly in his face.

The woman had frozen, unsure of what to do and too shocked to think about doing it.

"Anassa….let's put me down and talk about this."

"You know what I've always _hated_ about you, _Daddy Jon_? You're always referring to me or whatever one of my sisters you've killed as _we._ As if you've _ever_ suffered the shit you've put us through…_We_ should do this. _We_ shouldn't do that. _Let's not do this, Anassa._"

She chuckled mirthlessly as she effortlessly pinned him to the wall. She realized that she could _smell_ his fear in the form of adrenaline and sweat. His ordinarily tidy dirty blonde hair was stuck to his forehead with it and his hazel eyes were wide.

"So, _Jon Dawes,_" she whispered dangerously, "you like experiments, don't you? You see, I've got some very interesting things going on…how about you be my first subject?"

"_Anassa, please…_Everything I did, I did for you!"

Ana's grip tightened around his throat, cutting his speech off to a muffled gurgle.

"Oh, I'm sure you did. Just like you took _her_ out for dinner because you wanted to."

With her free hand, she ripped his shirt open. Buttons clattered to the floor and his heaving, vulnerable chest was suddenly exposed. She relished the smell of his sweat. It was the first time in his life that he'd openly showed her the fear as well as how much he truly despised her.

"What's the matter? Are _we_ going to piss ourselves now?" Ana asked, her fingers sparking just enough to hurt him.

"You _ungrateful_ bitch!" he coughed out.

Ana shook her head.

"Terrible manners. She could do better, I think."

Ana placed her hand over Jon's heart and her face scrunched in concentration. A massive burst of electricity shot from her palms into the unfortunate man's chest. He screamed horribly and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. The woman's heels clopped like a horse's hooves as she fled as fast as she could. Finally, her tormentor's heart stopped and Ana let his smoking corpse fall to the floor. She fished through his clothes and found his wallet. Stuffing it down the front of her dress, Ana grinned.

"Who's next?"

As she made her way into the bowels of the facility with her stolen card, she realized that someone had activated a "lock-down" status. Unfortunately, they weren't counting on her having administrative priveleges (thanks to her stolen card) and the doors presented absolutely no obstacles to her. Where she couldn't get the card to work, she merely punched through it by brute force.

"Oh my goodness….Ana!"

It was the worst of the worst timing. Ana had just thrust her fingers through one of her "care-taker's" chest and wrenched his still-beating heart out. This one had gotten a very brutal death because he had used her in an "aversion training" experiment. When they were physically conditioning her, he had made the consequences very severe if she didn't improve _every single time._ He'd forced her to run until she'd collapsed from exhaustion and sometimes vomiting spells. Now she stood over him clutching his heart in her hand. Glancing up from his still-stupefied expression, she saw perhaps the only one person who had ever been kind to her here. It was Donna Summers, an older woman who had given up the chance to work with the Progenitor Virus hands-on to raise her. The woman's hazel eyes were wide with shock and horror at the beast her "daughter" had become. The heart in her hand sprayed blood a few more times before she let it drop with a wet squishy thud to the floor.

"Oh, Ana…I'm so sorry," Donna whispered, her eyes glittering with tears, "I had no idea until it was too late…they locked me in my room, Sweetie…"

Ana's eyes were still blazing crimson.

"You _knew_," she snapped accusingly, "you _knew_ those bastards were up to something. Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

Donna let out a sound that bordered somewhere between a scream and a sob.

"I didn't _know!_"

Almost carelessly, Ana whipped her arm in an arc over the dead man. Her now flammable blood spattered his corpse and ignited it.

"You knew _something,_" she pressed, "even someone like you who sees the best in everyone knew that those girls were disappearing one by one! I _heard_ you talking about it when you thought I was asleep!"

"But I didn't know _where_ _to_," Donna pleaded, "I swear to God Almighty! Please, Ana…let me get you a few things and then _run!_ Don't kill anyone else! Go make a life for yourself!"

Ana's hand closed around her throat, but she didn't squeeze. Donna let her eyes squeeze shut.

"Fine…kill me if it makes you feel better. I've seen things here that no mortal person should ever see and I probably deserve it. But the rest of them don't! Ana, some of them were _good people!_"

"Don't give me that load of shit," Ana snapped, "They don't care about anything but themselves!"

"That's not true…" Donna's voice broke, "Ana, most of them didn't know _anything_ about the lower levels!"

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"How would lying to you help me? You're going to kill me anyway!"

Ana loosened her grip.

"No. Actually," she said, sounding deceptively calm and almost completely mad at the same time, "you're going to help me and I know you've got the clearance I need."

"What are you going to do?" Donna asked shakily.

"I'm going to blow this place up."

"Ana!"

"If you don't help me, you can burn with them," Ana said matter-of-factly.

Donna bowed her head.

"No. I won't do that, Ana. I'm not going to murder people just to save my own life. I understand that you're utterly furious with all of us, that you're sixteen and you were full of piss and vinegar before they shot you up with Progenitor and then put bullets in your brain. I don't blame you for being angry, but two wrongs _really_ don't make a right."

"Suit yourself," Ana said coldly, swinging her arm. It connected with Donna's head and knocked her unconscious. Ana took her card. Dragging Donna over to the nearest computer terminal, she used Donna's finger on the scanner to get access to the network. Skimming over the map, she quickly found what she was looking for and ran down the stairs. On the way past people pounding on doors and elevators to try and get free, Ana slowed her relentless pace only slightly to try and figure out her next move. She came across the cell she had occupied only hours before. While the inside was made up to look like a small apartment, it was really just a glorified prison. There were no windows and only one door. The kitchenette area, living room, and bedroom were all one open area and the bathroom was a tiny closet. Ana looked around the room quickly. Getting a backpack, she stuffed in only a few items. She also added the stolen wallets and purses that she'd snatched from her victims. Holding up her white satin ballet shoes, she remembered the time spent with her instructor. God only knew where the woman was now. She had learned a lot, but she hated her almost as much as Jon.

_All right, that's enough,_ she thought.

On the last level before she would reach the generator room, Ana smelled something that made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. Despite the utter wrongness of the entire night, she sensed that something else was off. Her answer came soon after she was halfway towards the next flight of stairs. There was a feral-sounding growl. Eyes blazing, she searched the gloom for what might be its source. A blur lunged at her and she only saw teeth. Reacting with ridiculous speed, she leapt out of the way and the creature went skidding into the wall.

"Well…." She almost laughed, "look at you! I'll bet you're as sick of this place as I am!"

The Cerberus shook its mangled head, quickly recovering from the impact. It slipped a little on the tile floor since its paw pads were coated in blood and some other unpleasant-looking muck. Ana might have left it alone if it hadn't insisted on attacking her. She was forced to snap its neck under her cruel grasp. Someone had let these things out in sheer desperation in hopes that they would slow her down. Needless to say it didn't work. She frequently sent them flying with one hit or kick, maybe two for the particularly stubborn ones. The security system was actually giving her much more trouble than these things. It took her several tries to break down the final barrier, but she did it at last with a little bit of luck. Jon was the moron who was so arrogant that his plans would never fail that he still used his birthdate as the password. She stepped into the generator room.

"Holy Hell," she muttered, seeing that they were suspended over a pit of lava. She had known that Alaska had a few live volcanoes, but she had no clue they were _this_ close to one. The heat energy was being transformed into electrical power by way of the rising heat columns turning giant turbines. She couldn't work out all the particulars, but she knew that it would get ugly very fast. Using Jon's card once again, she activated the self-destruct sequence. It took her a few minutes to figure it out—it didn't help that the loose B.O.W.'s were now starting to invade the room. They were attracted to all the blood they smelled. At first, she pitied them. Then, she simply got irritated that they were constantly in the way. Sending bolt after bolt of lightning into them, she had to keep one hand on the console's keyboard and the other one ready for attacks. Red lights began to flash.

"Self-destruct sequence activated," the irritating recorded voice said, "evacuate immediately. Five minutes to detonation."

Ana sent another Cerberus spinning into the lava with a well-aimed kick. A few had managed to bite her in her distraction, but the wounds were already scabbing over. Shifting her bag to the other arm, she began to sprint for the door. At first, she couldn't remember which way was out, but she knew she had to keep going up. It was then that she noticed Donna still laying where she had fallen. Hearing more people coming, Ana scooped Donna up as if she weighed nothing, slung her over her shoulder, and continued on her way. It wasn't easy getting around the multitudes of guards (who were now having to deal with B.O.W.'s as well as look for Ana), but she only avoided them because of Donna. They hurried downstairs only to find out that the door was essentially welded shut. Realizing that there was nothing they could do, they started trying to get people out. Ana got lost a few times on the way up, but she was soon sprinting towards the door with only seconds to spare. She leapt a few times, surprised at how far she could jump. On the third or fourth hop, there was a massive shudder in the ground and a concussive wave of sound rendered her temporarily deaf. She dropped to the ground and felt rather than saw all the shrapnel landing in the snow (and in some cases on her). Donna was shielded from the worst of it just because Ana had thrown her into a drift.

"You're lucky I liked you," she spat irritably. She punched her fist through the window of a nearby car and unlocked it. Placing Donna gently in the passenger seat, she turned the key that was still left in the ignition and switched on the heater to keep her warm. It was morbid, but she dipped her finger in her still dripping blood and wrote something on the windshield:

_Take a vacation!_

She crammed a wad of hundred-dollar bills (stolen, of course) under Donna's shirt before running off into the night like the little thief she was. After she'd fled into the woods, she stripped away the ruined gown and discarded it. Scrubbing her now-healed skin with snow, she felt as if she was washing away an entire lifetime. As far as they would know, she had also died in the explosion and no one would be the wiser. She doubted that Donna would ever tell anyone anything—even if she did, Donna didn't know everything she'd been up to. Changing into a much more appropriate outfit of boots, thermal pants, a parka, and a knit cap, Ana took a second just to breathe in the frozen air.

_I did it,_ she thought, _I'm free._

She sprinted away and ran until she was thoroughly exhausted. Being careful to stay away from towns for a few days, she traveled south. Only when she was further into Canada did she finally stop and afford herself a night to rest. It amused her greatly when she heard about the "nuclear power plant failure" near Anchorage. Popping the cork on some champagne that she was too young to drink, she raised the bottle towards the TV.

"To Umbrella cover-ups!" she cheered.


End file.
